


To His Heart's Content

by whovianmuse



Category: Moonlight (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Out on the balcony, with the cool rush of winter air blowing back his loose curls, the sweat on the edge of his skin freezing, Mick felt himself sober up, if ever so slightly. His attention was drawn immediately, as it always was, to the man standing beside him. Josef looked thoughtful and perfectly at ease, arms thrown casually over the ledge, fingers occasionally smoothing back unruly tufts of hair, while Mick pretended to gaze out onto the beautiful skyline, hoping his impaired senses wouldn’t give him away.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To His Heart's Content

“Those are headlights. I’m going to die!”

His shouts were drowned out by the horrible excuse for music issuing from the speakers in the corners of the apartment living room. His vision swerved, as it had been for much of that night, and when he confirmed that he was not in a car plummeting toward his death, and that the lights shining down from the ceiling were not headlights, or hell, he stumbled toward the nearest piece of furniture and clung to it like an awkward boyfriend.

“Excuse me, ma’am, where’s Josef?”

Mick addressed this query to the lampshade beside him, whose expensive fabric and tassels did very little to shield Mick’s eyes from the blinding light emanating from underneath. Why he was bending over to look up what he considered to be this young woman’s dress, he wasn’t sure. It was the several dozen Kamikazes talking, after all.

            “You look lovely, by the way. Have you lost weight?” he asked the lampshade, his head titled to the side in astonishment. He attempted to casually throw his arm around its metallic body, but instead missed by several inches, clattering to the floor in one very ungraceful motion.

            “Shit,” he muttered. His drink crashed to the hardwood floor, splattering vodka and triple sec everywhere. He sat there dumbfounded for a moment, the lights swirling in a beautiful, nauseating haze, the smell of sweat issuing from the intoxicated dancers rubbing up against one another in his best friend’s apartment. Mick stared at them for a moment, envious of the fact that they could freely be with the one they wanted.

Malcontent with the thoughts racing through his brain, threatening to kill his buzz, he began to laugh at his misfortune. Here he was, plastered off his ass, and still he couldn’t push the torturous thoughts from his head. He found it troubling. Had alcohol lost its point, if escapism was no longer a valid option? _Mick St. John, you alcoholic_. His laughter escalated into a giggling fit, and, dizzy, he slumped further onto the floor, laying his head against the uncomfortable, hard wood.

“Truly a man of sophistication.”

A familiar voice made his eyes snap open and he sat up rather quickly, feeling the diluted blood filter from his brain. Josef’s playfully snarky tone was unmistakable, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He held out his hand for Mick to grasp, and lifted him up off the floor.

“You’re drunk,” Josef teased, throwing his arm around Mick’s shoulders.

“Am not,” Mick protested, unable to suppress his giggles, especially when Josef’s face was so close in proximity. He attempted rather unsuccessfully to smooth back his disheveled dark brown hair. His insides had started to contract with the dreadful combination of anxiousness and alcohol. One should never mix poisons. Josef, noticing that Mick’s legs had gone slack, dragged him over to the nearest piece of unoccupied furniture and set him down gently. Taking the seat right beside him and altogether forgetting his drink and the brunette he’d just been chatting up, Josef placed his hand against Mick’s forehead, a worried crease set in his own.

            “Mick, you’re burning up,” he said, frowning. Josef trailed his hand along the side of Mick’s face, genuinely concerned, studying the curves and dimples he’d come to memorized after fifty years’ friendship. Mick opened his eyes and turned to stare at Josef, readjusting and blinking several times until he saw just one of him. Josef sighed contentedly as Mick’s lips twisted up into a sloppy grin, the lights ricocheting off his white teeth.

            “Let’s get you outside,” Josef said, lifting Mick up quite easily and snaking an arm around his waist for support. Mick wondered whether he should feel pathetic for practically being carried like a child, until he remembered the number of nights he’d done the same for Josef. Although, hopefully, this night wouldn’t end with his head in the toilet.

            Josef brought Mick to the far end of his apartment, where a wall comprised entirely of two large, crystalline glass doors led to an outdoor pool and a balcony. This was the spot where Mick and Josef often spent their nights, chasing down whiskey with shots of O-positive, laughing and reminiscing to their hearts’ content. It was nearly dusk, and the sky looked just about as tangible as smoke, strokes of pink and orange strewn across black, punctuated with the glimmering city lights of Los Angeles.

            Out on the balcony, with the cool rush of winter air blowing back his loose curls, the sweat on the edge of his skin freezing, Mick felt himself sober up, if ever so slightly. His attention was drawn immediately, as it always was, to the man standing beside him. Josef looked thoughtful and perfectly at ease, arms thrown casually over the ledge, fingers occasionally smoothing back unruly tufts of hair, while Mick pretended to gaze out onto the beautiful skyline, hoping his impaired senses wouldn’t give him away.

It didn’t seem fair that someone so irritatingly immature, and self-confident to the point of arrogance could be so charming. Josef had eyes like dark chocolate and espresso all swirled together into one concoction, comforting and calming and intoxicating. He was always well dressed, a smug reminder of his success. Expensive black pinstripe suits, garnished with splashes of dark red, button-up shirts that clung a little too tightly to his chest. Soft, pink lips, content with a heart-clenching pout, or a devilish smirk. Perfect pale skin. Carelessly disheveled hair. Impossible to ignore.

He was always so close. But then the opportunity disappeared into nothingness. Into another chance lost. Another day of torment and pain and questions that he was sick and tired of answering. They were always rhetorical, always impossible. He’d imaged every scenario, perused every fantasy he kept locked up in the confines of his mind.

            He couldn’t go on like this, letting these feelings devour him so completely. He couldn’t stand to watch Josef walk away with another woman he barely knew, one that would only satisfy his need for a fortnight, until he grew bored and searched for other prospects. How little Josef knew, despite his finely aged intelligence and experience. All he ever needed in a companion was standing right next to him, the space between them growing so fine that Mick could almost taste his inviting scent. Mick felt Josef shift closer, felt his arm brush up against his jacket. His mind reacted instinctively, and the questions raced. He was surprised that Josef couldn’t hear his mind whirring around inside his head.

            _Is this too close? Should I move?_

_He doesn’t know. He can’t know._

_It would ruin us. I can’t lose him._

_But I need to tell him. It’s killing me._

His thoughts were cut short by the sound of the glass doors sliding open behind them. He heard them close with a small _click_ , and he let out a gust of breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in, lowering his head at the sound of her voice.

            “Hey, sweetheart. I’m sorry I’m late. Maureen gave me a lead on this murder case, and I had a window at the morgue. But I came as soon as I could. Oh— did I interrupt? Hello, Mick.”

            Mick didn’t bother to turn around, content with a simple wave to the annoying blonde reporter that Josef had met last week, as he scowled down at the bright city lights.

            “Hello, love. No, you haven’t interrupted anything,” Josef responded hastily, his voice thickly coated with sweet insincerity. Mick grimaced. Even without the heightened sense of smell, he could tell that she had coated herself in Chanel. And judging by the pheromones, Mick guessed she was expecting more from Josef than just a drink. Lucky bitch.

            Patting him on the shoulder, Josef whispered, “Sorry, man, but Beth gets cross if I don’t keep her occupied. You understand.”

Mick gave him a curt nod, and continued to stare straight ahead, shifting so that his chin rested uncomfortably on his crossed arms. A sick feeling settled into the pit of his stomach, like he had swallowed acid. It twisted and lurched and sent his heart pounding, drawing up tears that threatened to spill if he let himself think about it. And of course he did, because he couldn’t help himself.

They’re inside, and everyone’s left, and it’s just the two of them. She’s touching his chest and kissing his lips and he’s trailing his hands along her tight-fitting dress, and whispering into her ear, making her smile. And they’re together and Mick is still outside, glued to the balcony, hanging on to the remnants of his night with Josef, wishing that it could be him. And it’s all in Mick’s head, but he knows the truth of it.

Josef won’t think of Mick tonight. He won’t think of him at all.


End file.
